Flickering, Fleeting Hope
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: Alecto Carrow thought she could face Azkaban fearlessly. But without her brother by her side, she is more fragile than she realized.


_Title Suggestions?_

 _For_

 _Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition_

 _Round 2_

 _Falmouth Falcons, Captain: Write about a dark character who needs comfort/affection_

 _And_

 _Assignment 11, Herbology task 1: Write about someone struggling with a change in their life._

 _Word Count: 1143_

* * *

Alecto keeps her head held high as she and her brother are escorted through the dim, grimy halls of Azkaban. The concrete floor beneath her feet is slick and her balance threatens to slip. Amycus moves a little closer, his shoulder pressing against her side to help her stay upright.

"You're making a mistake!" Alecto announces with manic glee, always eager to proclaim her faith. "Our master will reward us!"

The Aurors assigned to them don't seem to care; they simply lead the siblings along. A tense silence hangs in the air, interrupted only by distant shrieks and sobs. For a moment, Alecto's ferocity wavers, and a chill shoots up her spine.

For the first time since their sentencing, the gravity of the situation sets in. This is no longer some theoretical _what if?_ that hides in the back of her mind. It has become real. Panic threatens to set in, and she sucks in deep breath after deep breath, hoping—and failing—to steady her nerves.

Amycus continues to be unaffected. If he notices his sister's sudden change at all, he doesn't say a word. His beady eyes remain fixed upon the darkness before them.

"We will be rewarded," Alecto continues, but her voice sounds thin and brittle now.

"This way," the Auror in charge of Amycus says, roughly pushing him down a corridor.

When Alecto tries to follow her brother, her handler tightens his grip on her shoulder. "Where do you think _you're_ going?" he asks.

"Amycus…"

She quickly snaps her mouth shut before she can finish her sentence, her jaw clenching. If she shows them her weakness, they will use it against her, and she cannot take that risk.

"What's your name?" she asks instead, deciding it's a safe enough question.

The Auror inhales sharply. For a moment, Alecto thinks he might not answer. After several seconds of silence, however, he says, "Dawlish."

"Well, Dawlish, I hope you're ready," she says. "We won't be in here for long. When our master rises again, he will come for us."

She has to keep telling herself this to keep her panic at bay. If she lets herself give in to the demons inside her head, she will crumble.

Dawlish lets out a low, deep chuckle as they come to a stop. "Between you and me," he tells her, opening the door to her cell, "I hope your master never comes back. He's been a right pain in the ass."

Before she can even attempt to defend the Dark Lord's honor, Alecto is guided into the cell. Once he's a safe distance away from the door, Dawlish steps back and mutters the spell to make the bindings around her thick wrists fall away, disappearing. "Good luck, Miss Carrow," he says, though his dry tone tells her that he doesn't care if she's lucky or not. "I get the feeling that if we ever meet again, you won't be so lucid."

She opens her mouth to argue but quickly decides it isn't worth the effort. The heavy door closes, cutting her off from the outside world. For several moments, all Alecto can do is stare at it, as though she can will it away with her thoughts.

Finally, alone in the darkness, she slumps to the cold floor.

…

She doesn't know how much time passes. The darkness is disorienting, and her meals are too infrequent to use as a tracker. All she knows is that the Dementors are always nearby. By now, she has forgotten what it's like to live without that horrible chill biting into her bones and freezing the marrow within.

The worst days are the days when they get too close, and the voices inside her head seem to scream until she's left as a ghost of herself, shaking and completely drained.

…

 _She screams, feeling the bruises form within seconds after the impact of her father's fist against her jaw._

" _Should have had another son! Look at you!" he screams._

Alecto wraps her arms around her body as though she can somehow hold herself together. It does nothing to combat the sudden chill in the air that sinks beneath her skin.

 _Her father grips her by her short, messy hair. The foul scent of alcohol is heavy on his breath as he gets directly in her face. "No one will ever want an ugly bitch like you," he says. "Look at you, girl! Useless thing, aren't you?"_

"Amycus." Her voice is barely above a quivering whisper, and it's quickly drowned out by the screaming and sobbing from the surrounding cells.

Her eyes are swollen and burning from her salty tears, and her chest aches from her sobs. Still, she calls his name, longing for his promises that everything will be okay.

" _Let go of her!"_

 _She doesn't even see her brother enter, but she can hear the fire in his voice. Alecto squeezes her eyes closed, whimpering. By now, she is used to being hurt by her father. If Amycus intervenes, if their father hurts him because he's trying to protect her, Alecto doesn't know what she'll do._

" _Stay out of this, son."_

 _Her seventeen year old brother doesn't back down. He wedges himself between Alecto and their father. "Leave her alone."_

" _Wanna take her place, huh? So be it."_

 _A scream bubbles from her throat as she watches her father's bony knuckles split Amycus' lip._

She screams as the cold burrows deeper into her body, penetrating every inch until her veins seem to be filled with more ice than blood.

It's always been her fault; Amycus always ends up hurt, and she's always to blame. They probably wouldn't even be in Azkaban now if she hadn't been sloppy and gotten them caught. Still, she has the audacity to miss him, to wish for his comforting arms and the sense of security that only he can provide.

…

Alecto sits on the floor, raking her jagged, broken nails against the rough stone wall. Her nails wear away a little more, and she can feel a faint hint of blood tickling her fingers, but she doesn't stop.

"We will be rewarded," she says, but her old mantra no longer brings her comfort.

She rakes her fingers through her dirty, matted red hair, choking on a sob. "Amycus!" she cries. "Amycus!"

It isn't enough, and it does nothing to ease the anxiety and fear that plague her mind, but she still continues to call his name. It's the closest thing to comfort she has left in this miserable, cramped hellhole.

Sometimes, if she listens hard enough, she almost convince herself that she hears his voice in the distance, calling out her name.

One day, she will have her brother back, and everything will be okay again. In the meantime, she will rely on flickering, fleeting hope to soothe the emptiness in her heart.


End file.
